Delusional
by endsoftime
Summary: It's not easy having to determine what's real and what isn't, but when it's the only thing you've ever had, there isn't really much choice...SLASH OR NOT, WHATEVER YOU WANT


The orderly comes by his room at twelve to remind him his visitor's arriving at six.

As if he'd fucking forget. He's delusional, not senile. As if he could forget who exactly was due in the visitor's lounge later that evening. As if he could forget how this person was the only person to not have visited before this. As if he could forget all the other visitors he'd had up to that point, and how the short-felt gratitude had bled away into a niggling restlessness to see one person, and one person only.

The one person who's had yet to show.

Until now.

And he'd wanted it. He'd wanted it so bad, his fucking teeth had _ached_ from gnashing them together in impatience and frustration and _need_.

He needed it. Without a doubt he needed it, regardless of how fucked up he was, regardless of how fucked up their relationship was, regardless of how infuriatingly reluctant his therapist had been to "okay" this visit, citing maybe he hadn't made enough progress yet to handle it.

Maybe he wasn't ready.

He wasn't. He knew he wasn't. He knew he never would be. But it didn't matter.

He _had_ to. There wasn't a choice left. It was this, or nothing. It was this, or _no one_.

His therapist thinks there might be something to that. She thinks that, just maybe, their relationship isn't what he thinks it is. Maybe it doesn't mean what he thinks it means. Maybe it's really not affection, loyalty, compatibility, good fun. Maybe it's a lot more cut and dry than he thinks it is; maybe he's looked too much into what wasn't there at all. Maybe he wanted to see that kind of connection, because he wasn't going to get it anywhere else.

Maybe they were the way they were because that's how they had to be. Not because of any real desire to be with one another, not because they enjoyed each other's company, and would willingly choose it above all others, but merely because they lacked any real alternatives.

It made sense. It was logical. And he lived on logic. He breathed sense, made it the very epicenter of his existence. Valued it more than any other concern or feeling or platitude. He could handle logic.

But he couldn't handle that. He couldn't handle the idea that it had all been lies, that it hadn't been anything, that it hadn't meant anything, and all of it was just inside his head, like his ridiculous hallucinations that were only now, five months later, starting to disappear.

Would this notion disappear, too? Would the idea that they had been close just vanish into smoke? Would it evaporate into thin air, phase through the ceiling like the last haunting image of Amber had, floating into the sky like some weird, heavenly ascension?

Would it leave him, like all his other delusions had? Was it even a delusion? He knew there was only one way to find out.

And that's why he dreaded tonight's visit. It was so much more than a chance to reconnect, a moment of comfort, a reminder of support from the one person who really mattered anymore. It was a test. Proof positive of whether he was crazy or not; whether he'd dreamed this whole relationship or not.

He'd know by the attire.

He'd know by the entrance, the gait, the walk, the posture.

He'd know before the distance between them was even closed. He'd know before the seat in front of his was taken, before eyes met, before any word was spoken.

And anything after that would prove whether it had all been a ruse.

A delusion, he could handle. A figment of his imagination, yeah, sure, disappointing, but understandable.

If it'd been an act; nothing more than one ridiculously long placating gesture, he would probably snap. Splinter into a thousand pieces and never be heard from again.

That was the one thing he dreaded. That was the one blow he couldn't take.

But he wanted it. He needed it. He had to do it.

But he'd seen it happen before. In the most unlikely of places, he'd seen it here. From people you'd never expect. From people who don't even seem to notice they're doing it.

Bob sits in his armchair near the fireplace, glow from the crackling logs warming against the chill of early February. Wife reaches across the space between them that was wide to begin with, and only ever seems to grow, grabbing his hand like she thinks he'll melt through the floor if she doesn't hold on. She'll hold back tears, badly, swallowing around an obvious lump in her throat, as she throws out whatever she can think of, one final desperate act to snap him out of whatever's happened.

"I miss you," she says. "I miss Bob."

Which is a contradiction all on its own, and not to be taken at face value. She does not miss _him_, she misses who he used to be. Whoever the hell he is now, he's not Bob. Bob's dead. Bob died when he got in the traumatic car accident, or when his boss fired him and left him penniless and without recourse, or when he found out his wife cheated, or when his twelve-year-old daughter was run over by a drunk driver, or whatever the hell it was that killed him. Point is, Bob's not there. Bob won't ever be there. Not the way she wants him to be. And he knows that. Knows this is all some pretty farce, some game she's trying to reset. So why bother trying for her anymore? He can't make her happy. He can't be what he was. And neither of them will ever be whole again. Nothing actually meant anything, because it couldn't withstand this. So Bob sits there, in his armchair near the fire, soaking in the pleasant warmth, and staring at a woman who doesn't know him anymore, and never says a word.

He fears this. He dreads this. And when he finds himself in the visitor's lounge at 5:55 on the dot, cane tapping nervously to the counter-beat his other hand plods out on top of the table, Bob sitting across the room at his fireplace, a vision of what he could very easily become in the next few minutes, he finds it very hard to summon the courage not to run screaming from the room, bum leg be damned.

It could all end tonight.

It could end.

The doors at end of the hall open.

It could all end, and he isn't ready.

He isn't ready to see the perfectly pressed work attire, straight from the office when there was finally a spare moment. Hair coifed, face shaved, eyes relaxed. Couldn't bear to see such easy adjustment, such little apprehension, such ability to move on and forget.

He can't bear to see it, and he fears it, and he knows it'll come, what could he possibly expect, what right did he have to demand or even hope for anything at this point?

Footsteps on the tiles tracked from wheel chairs going back and forth all day.

He expects upbeat. He expects jaunty gait, like when they used to walk down the halls of the hospital together, no regard for his leg whatsoever, just silent acknowledgment, minor changes to the swing of unaffected legs.

He hears slow. He hears soft. He hears tentative and nerves and urge to bolt from the room. He hears and echo of his own trepidation, and wonders what it means.

Fear? Fear to see what he's become? Fear like Bob's wife, who'll never see her husband again? Fear to spur a hand grasping his and the words, "I miss you," tumbling sadly and regretfully in the voice he never wanted to hear say that.

Maybe it wouldn't be as easy to tell as he'd thought. Maybe he really would have to wait until the seat was taken, the eyes were met.

But not words. Never those words. He couldn't bear it.

Metal legs of the visitors chair scrape across the floor. Body sinks, quiet but weary, into the molded plastic, soft sigh.

He studies the attire. Anything to put off the inevitable. Maybe a clue in the clothes to help steel him for whatever he'll see when he meets the eyes.

No pressed pants. No white Oxford shirt. No ugly tie. No long, smart coat meant for work and office parties.

Jeans and sneakers. A wrinkled McGill sweater under that grungy tan jacket that's meant for weather warmer than this. Gloves poking out of the pockets on the side.

He feels something wriggle in his chest.

No. No time for hope. Not yet. No point in getting hopes up to see them dashed.

No moving on with life could be readily seen, but that didn't mean desperate disbelief like Bob's wife was still impossible.

Still possible. Still dreading.

Still wants this. Still needs it. Still _has_ to do this.

Stills his heart when he looks up, keeping both hope and desperation out of his expression as he dares to look up into chocolate brown eyes, to see the truth, to see the lies, to see what could even be seen.

Sadness.

And fear.

Like his wife.

Bob's wife.

He was Bob.

It all ends.

That's all he had to see.

All he had to know to confirm the diagnosis.

It all ends.

He ends.

It—

Calm. Pleased.

He sees these in there as well, just before he's about to cast his own gaze away in despair.

Of course.

He'd expected to see sadness and fear, so that's what he saw first. But others were there as well.

Concern. Confident. Relieved. Understanding.

Pride.

_Hope_.

And so he hoped. And he wished. And he dared to dream it might not be the same. That it would be real.

That it wouldn't be Bob and Bob's wife.

That it wouldn't be delusions, like his therapist implied.

That it would be real.

_They_ would be real.

He hoped. He _prayed_.

And then a smile, soft, unassuming, blameless and honest and warm. Open. Inviting. Forgiving. Apologizing.

It was the most real thing he'd seen in the last five months.

Mouth opened, slight breath in. Words would follow. Words that could ruin it all. Words that could prove it all a lie, still. Words that might still unravel him.

He dared to hope. He clung to the hope.

He had to. He needed it. He wanted it.

It was this, or nothing.

It was this, or _no one_.

"I've missed you, Greg."

Missed him. Not who he was. Not who he used to be. Not who he could never become.

Just him. All of him. Everything he'd ever been, everything he could be, everything he'd never be, all things he always would be.

Missed him. Always missed him. Always would. God, could barely breathe without him, and five months had been torture, and who knew how much longer, but he was here, he always would be, he hadn't left, he wouldn't leave.

He'd wait. They'd wait. And when it was all over, whoever he was by the end of it, they'd still be. They'd always be.

Because that's exactly how it was. That's exactly what it meant. That's exactly what had been there this entire time.

A smirk met the smile.

"Missed you, too, Jimmy."

He'd been right all along.


End file.
